Tackle
by Play-Your-Song
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is used to taking risks. He is not accustomed to anyone really caring about that. Gen/Friendship. One-shot.


_A/N: Thank you, everyone for your reviews! I fixed some formatting difficulty, and some spelling errors. Enjoy!_

_*This is an unofficial fanfic. Sherlock Holmes was written by Arthur Conan Doyle._

_Tackle_

"The cause of death appears to be…. blunt force trauma to the back of the head."

Watson looked up from his examination of the unfortunate corpse that had been discovered in the early morning hours by a constable on his rounds. The body had been poorly hidden in the narrow walkway between a tobacconist's shop, and a bookseller's. Watson, Inspector Lestrade, and I examined the shadowed alley, not a stone's throw from the main street, where several constables stood in a line to prevent passersby from beholding the grim scene.

I nodded in agreement with Watson's assessment, and leaned back on my heels to think.

"I'm certain, Inspector, you can't have missed the footprints indicative of the body being dragged here by… two people." I pointed to the incriminatory marks surrounding the body. "One man, quite large both in weight and in height. The other, average height and weight. I need not mention it would be impossible to administer such a blow from that angle in this narrow space."

"Yes, of course" came the voice of Inspector Lestrade behind me, "that's exactly what we determined, Mr. Holmes. In addition, the victim was found with no money, identification, or valuables of any kind."

"Robbery, then?" Watson guessed.

"Robbery, certainly, but not of the ordinary kind." This I spoke softly, for in the reflection of a shop window, I spied the shadow of a man watching the scene from behind a tree some distance up the main road.

"Well, then, Holmes, if you have a theory, perhaps you would be so good as to enlighten us? There's a good chap." Lestrade spoke testily.

"Holmes?" Watson frowned and followed my gaze. "What is it?"

That our mysterious watcher matched the description of one of our suspects was immediately apparent to me. I began to develop a plan for questioning the man without frightening him away, when suddenly he rushed into the street, and leapt onto the back of a passing hansom. The cab was bearing quickly down the road in our direction, and would soon have passed us by. Without a word, I sprang up and dashed past the line of officers, into the street.

"Holmes! For heaven's sake, what do you think you're doing?!"

Watson's concerned call to me was soon drowned out by the noise of hooves against stone, and my bellowed command, "Driver, stop!"

I had been counting on the cabman's swift cooperation, so the realization that the driver's bulky physique quite perfectly matched the description of the second murderer was most unwelcome. I had but a few moments of indecision, in which I debated whether to leap out of the way, or attempt to maneuver myself onto the cab as it passed by. I was strongly preferring the latter option, but my decision was made immaterial when I was lifted by the waist, and violently pulled from the hansom's path as it trampled on its way.

The man who grabbed me held tight from behind and twisted so that I landed not on the unforgiving stone beneath us, but directly atop my unsolicited rescuer. On impact, I heard a crack that sent a true wave of dread through my body as I felt the arms release me. I knew that none of the Yarders present that day had much experience with rugby, and I doubted there were many men willing to modify such a move in order to take the full impact of the fall upon himself.

Using our momentum to my advantage, I rolled off the man and pushed myself up with trembling arms to kneel in the filthy street beside Watson, whose grimaced and slightly dazed expression darted back and forth, as if he was trying and yet failing to focus on anything. My friend, having been slammed rather harshly to the ground by his reprobate flatmate, appeared to be suffering a good deal of pain, and a concussion of unknown severity.

_My friend_, I thought desperately. His earlier statement, "_cause of death… blunt force trauma to the back of the head_," was replaying most persistently in my mind, and made it deucedly difficult to maintain my serenity. My breath came in short gasps as I saw him struggle to breathe.

"Lestrade!" If the sharp edge of distress was evident in my shaking voice as I hovered over my fallen companion, then perhaps it would compel the good Inspector to move all the more quickly. "Lestrade! Watson is hurt! Quick, man, fetch a doctor!"

Officers were by now surrounding us as I surveyed the damage to my friend. A ginger inspection of the back of his head revealed a lump forming, and I saw his left leg was badly swollen, possibly broken. I recall Lestrade yelling something to a young constable before he, too, was kneeling next to Watson and me.

"Mr. Holmes, is he alright?" The inspector demanded. "I've sent McCallister for a doctor. Try to keep him comfortable, but don't move him."

"Yes, yes," I muttered absently. I removed my coat and lay it across the form of my friend. I felt an unexpected constricting of my heart at the sight of his confused, even frightened expression. Seeing it, I took a deep breath and forced my own emotions back into control. The most important thing at that moment was that Watson needed me.

"It's alright, Watson," I spoke soothingly, as I had often spoken to distressed clients, letting them borrow my confidence. I carefully placed a hand on his arm – just enough to calm him, or perhaps to calm myself. "You're alright. You seem to have a concussion, old chap, but you're safe now, and soon a doctor will see to your injuries. Just breathe, my friend. Breathe. There's a good man."

And, here I finally saw Watson respond to me, as his breathing slowed and became steady, if a bit strained, mine too steadied, until we were breathing in sync with one another. A few moments of this, and the spell of confusion seemed to break off him, for although his eyes did not quite focus, at least he was now looking in my direction.

"Holmes?"

The tightness in my chest loosened considerably when I heard Watson speak my name. I preempted his attempt to sit up by placing my hands firmly on his shoulders.

"Sharp as ever, Watson," I smiled, "but please remain where you are. You mustn't move until help arrives. How are you feeling?"

Watson frowned, but relaxed as I commanded. In point of fact, he relaxed so much - eyes closed, breathing slowed – that I feared he had fainted, or that he would fall asleep.

"Watson!" I shouted in his ear, and the startled man opened his leaden eyes to ungratefully glare in my direction. "Ah. Irritation is a symptom of concussion, Watson."

"Inconclusive…" The man slurred. "Irritation is also… a symptom of living with Sherlock Holmes."

I laughed heartily at that, relieved that his wit was intact. And, it was here that our medic arrived, eyeing me suspiciously for exhibiting mirth at a time like that.

It was several hours before Watson and I at last found ourselves before the hearth at Baker Street. I had informed Mrs. Hudson that Watson and I would not be taking our supper, for the doctor had prescribed sleep for Watson, and no food or drink for at least 12 hours. Since this whole ordeal was, in large part, my doing, I wouldn't consider eating when Watson could not. The good woman sniffed at that, but she helped get Watson settled on the couch, with his broken leg propped up on several cushions. Then, she smiled and patted my arm on her way out.

After taking some medication for the pain, Watson rested his head carefully on the pillow and sighed, eyes closed. I sat in my chair, knees drawn up to my chest, and tried once again to consider the puzzle of that morning. I had reason to believe our suspects would be long gone by that time. Developing the next best course of action would take some thought and planning.

"Holmes?"

I looked up and saw Watson was watching me with a worried expression.

"My dear Watson," I spoke quietly, not wanting to make worse the headache that I knew he had, "Is there anything you need?"

"I'm sorry they got away. I know you were trying to stop that cab, but Holmes…" here he shivered and looked away, "I have seen men who have been trampled by horses."

_And yet you ran in its path, too,_ I thought. Some unnamed emotion rose unbidden to my throat, and I found myself without a voice for a moment. I was accustomed to taking risks for the sake of a mystery. I was not yet used to having someone care, or worse – was it worse? – actually risking their own life and limb to make sure I kept mine. I pondered this for several moments, until his change in breathing told me that Watson was asleep.

"Forgive me, Watson," I whispered at last. "I will endeavor to be more careful in the future."


End file.
